Thatcher
by fyrelightpyre
Summary: Summary: Mad-Eye doesn't trust anyone because everyone sees him as a paranoid has-been. Perhaps he has stood at the edge of the edge of the cliff and seen things he would rather forget.   This is my first piece posted here.  Please Read and Review.
1. Chapter One: Thatcher

He didn't know when this happened, what significant event sparked this epiphany, but he learned long ago not to trust them, any of them. Not to walk away from them, no, they paid his for his lifestyle. Mad-Eye worked for the 'establishment', whatever shaky ground that stood upon. Things were chaotic these days. Nobody realised it, or at least they accepted their subscription blindly, because none of them really read the i Daily Prophet/i. The thing existed to sell itself. As far as he was concerned, the rag might as well be used for manure; he passed his along to Dumbledore's brother for goat fodder: it counted as pass along readership. He thought about tossing this one in the bin, but he decided against it, thinking someone would want to pass a few minutes reading between the lines.

There was no 'headquarters'. After some serious thought about logistics, it dawned on Dumbledore that people, magical and Muggle, dropped like flies left, right, and centre. None of them were safe. The Ministry had at least admitted this much, which only bred fear and panic. It's not that they were all just plain stupid. Not even the best prepared governments jammed with the top folks could handle something like this without a hitch. He, for one, would rather kick the bucket than take up a position of power because he liked working towards a goal. He had no patience to cut through the red tape of opposition and regulation. No, he'd rather opt to hang upside down by his fingers or commit suicide by drinking a vial of the vilest potion. They, the Powers That Be, had signed off on legislation that altered this game drastically, for it cleared the playing field, but he doubted this tidbit trickled down to the ears of the public.

"Why are you still reading that shit?"

Mad-Eye rolled his eyes and caught his balance. He hadn't realised that the press occupied his thoughts. For something he cared little about a reliable source, this thing wrapped his brain. He jabbed the sharp end of his umbrella, his walking stick, or so a fat little school boy called it earlier, into the man's boot. Thatcher was in mid-thirties, although his locks were drained of all hint of colour, pure white. His left hand was wrapped in adhesive medical tape, barely hidden by the sleeve of his black robes. He always looked focused, piercing people with those grey eyes. His skin was etched with a few scars, but, luckily, he had avoided his face. He worked for Auror Department. Though Mad-Eye had raised hell about this originally, Thatcher was adamant to prove society wrong, so he jumped through all the hoops. Not with flying colours, often by the skin of his teeth, but he proved useful. He felt the man didn't belong with a hundred metres of the Ministry, as the young man knew damn well, but they tolerated each other. Somehow along the way, they forged a friendship.

"You're late," Mad-Eye grunted as he pulled the edge of his bowler hat over his eye, nodding to two children who gawked at him. He waved a gnarled hand at them and lifted the tip of his umbrella. "Move along, now."

"It's round the corner," said Thatcher, jogging ahead of him. "Nice hat. I know, I know, I'm still late."

Mad-Eye peered into the man's heavy black backpack and sighed, "Library Boy."

"What?"

"Nothing," Mad-Eye said as they turned the corner and stopped at the fifth house. The garden was a little disorganised. It was a small place, but they didn't need much as a starting family. Mad-Eye rapped his knuckles on the chipped door. He muttered a Latinate phrase, answering the person who waited behind the door. Chains clicked and someone unlocked the door. "It's not as bad as I thought."

The young woman at the door laughed softly. She was a pretty thing. Her dark hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. Instead of robes, she had managed to make it home in time to pull on comfortable clothes. She greeted them with a soft smile, always a smile, which is why he liked her. He hadn't noticed it before, for he had only glimpsed a photograph in a cubicle, but she had grey eyes: they were a softer shade, large for her angular face and high cheekbones. The small boy disguised it, but he noticed that she had weight in a short period of time. A voice called to her, and she looked over her shoulder, but she sighed when the squirming boy kicked her in her side and passed him over to his father.

"Joss," Thatcher sighed, ruffling the boy's curly hair and Mad-Eye tapped the locks with his wand. The book bag fell off his shoulder by the armoire. He kissed his wife on the cheek. Mad-Eye now saw that she was big with child. "Meghan, this is Mad-Eye."

"Hello," she said, shaking his hand, not at all shocked by his appearance. "He talks about you all the time, so it's nice to put a face to this stranger."

"Mrs. Neilson," Mad-Eye said, pulling his best grimace.

"Meghan, please," she said. She didn't offer to take coat or offer him drink. Someone must have warned her. Mad-Eye caught her as she tripped over the bag. "Geoffrey, stop this."

"Geoffrey, who's that?" a voice called.

There was a crowd jammed in the tiny sitting room. Mad-Eye saw, as he got a better look, it extended into the adjoined kitchen. Dumbledore had requested a small crowd tonight, as there wasn't much to cover, but these people often needed a definition laid out when it came to size. Just glimpsing the area, Mad-Eye pointed out James Potter, his wife, Sirius Black, Aberforth Dumbledore, Albus Dumbledore, Peter Pettigrew, the Longbottoms, Marlene McKinnon, and the Prewett brothers. Thankfully, Hagrid had not come along because that would have really created a space issue. The one who had spoken, James, poured another glass of wine.

Mad-Eye jerked his neck in the opposite direction, indicating Thatcher, who had managed to weave through the madness and leaned against his bookshelf, already buried in a dog-eared volume.

"Oh," James said in an audible whisper, speaking with his friends. "I thought he was 'Thatcher'."

"Ah, good." Dumbledore pulled up a straight-backed chair and clapped his hands for order: the room fell silent at once. "Welcome. Before we get started with official business, I'd like to introduce you all to a couple who have generously opened their home to us with open arms. I believe we've all met Meghan."

"And Joshua," said Lily, who had somehow ended up with the kid.

"And over there somewhere," said Dumbledore, gesturing towards the large handsome mahogany bookshelves, "is Geoffrey Neilson, or, as some of us know him, Thatcher."

"Library Boy," Mad-Eye roared, pleased the idiot dropped his book. A few people laughed at the stranger. "Join us."

"Oh, hello." He waved to the room at large.

"'Hello', he says," Mad-Eye said, glaring at Dumbledore. "He's your problem. Fix him."

Dumbledore merely smiled.

"Ah, well, at least it speaks. Auror, my buttock," Mad-Eye sighed, taking out his hip flask.

Thatcher shrugged. He slid onto the floor and listened through the brief meeting without interruption, nodding his head here and there. He looked mildly interested, surprised by the young ones in the group. Usually, new inductees hung onto every word. Not that they had trouble keeping up with things, but they question every little thing. From what he had heard from Dumbledore, and this was never much, he knew 'both sides of the story'. Dumbledore had saved the man three years ago. He nearly missed it himself; the Thames waters had been so clouded that day, so it was easy to mistake the grey shrouded figure that floated along, facedown and presumably dead. He was hypothermic, cold as ice. There were three broken blades, a box of spent matches and a ruined volume of Shelley in his pocket.

Mad-Eye met the man the day he was 'saved' from the waters. He had listened to Dumbledore's spill, which all in all sounded like a load of dung. The way he understood it, Thatcher had no intention of living, and the old wizard ruined the plan for him. He wasn't the least bit sympathetic for the coward, especially when he saw a branded mark on his right arm. As much as he hated to admit it, Mad-Eye couldn't say indefinitely whether the man was a traitor. When it was tilted towards the light at an angle, it was quite clear that the Dark Mark had twisted round his thin arm; it was as if he had indeed pulled out at the last minute. Mad-Eye and Dumbledore were the only ones who knew the truth behind all of this. Thatcher always kept his forearm wrapped, claiming he had charred the skin beyond repair. The wound bled often with the exposed veins; You-Know-Who had not applied it to his skin.

"Alastor," said Dumbledore, pulling his thoughts back to the surface. He waved his wand over a roll of parchment, and it disappeared into thin air. "Is there anything else you'd like to add?"

"No." He shook his head and sniffed a glass of wine. "What say you, Thatch?"

"No, Professor," said Thatcher. He watched as some of the people gather their things and leave the room after mumbling good-byes. For some reason, he had not taken his eyes off of Peter Pettigrew the entire time Dumbledore spoke. He jumped up when his little one reached up for the man. "I've got it. Joss, time for bed!"

He froze. The boy shook his head. "No."

"Joshua Alexis," Thatcher snapped, as his wife picked up the boy. "What did you just say?"

"No, sir," said the little boy, mumbling in his mother's shoulder.

He waved good-bye to Lily.

"He's tired, Geoff, it's late," said Meghan. Peter handed her a blanket, and she thanked him and kissed her husband on the cheek.

Thatcher ran a hand through his little boy's hair and kissed his wife, holding her close. "I love you."

"I love you, too. Relax." Meghan stroked his face and squeezed his hand before she headed down the corridor.

"He speaks French?" Frank said, wiping his glasses on his t-shirt.

"_Oui_." Thatcher waved his wand and cleared the table. "We're starting Latin soon. You're surprised?"

"No, I mean, you're a walking textbook," said Frank, who figured out a moment too late perhaps he should have phrased that one differently. He spoke to his shoes, grinning from ear to ear. "Not that that's a bad thing, eh, Thatch?"

"Say that the next time when this textbook saves your arse," Thatcher said, handing Alice the dishes. "Get a new one, dear, that one's broken."

"Saved me? When have you ever saved me?" Frank asked, a little indignant. "And I'm not broken."

"Barcelona, last February," said Thatcher. He nodded at Alice as she walked back into the room. "Mind you, I never said where you were broken."

"Thatcher!" Alice slapped him lightly in the arm as James and Sirius roared with laughter. "Behave. What I want to know, now that we're on the subject, is how all of you idiots will handle these children. I mean, you've got me, Meghan, and Abbot's wife. "

"Sheri? She's a trip," said Thatch, helping himself to a carrot stick and a few crackers. "Oh, yeah, this? We planned it."

James and Sirius laughed even laughter when Frank spit wine in their faces and Alice dropped a plate, crying when she laughing so hard. Lily poked her head round the door, confused.

"It's just Thatch," said Alice, thanking him for clearing the mess and handing her the plate and utensils. She winked at James.

"Were you in on this as well?"

"You know it," James said, offering the man a seat and shaking his hand. "I like you, mate."

"I don't swing that way," said Thatcher apologetically, pulling a face. "It's a shame, though, isn't it? Cause you'd make a nice trophy on someone's arm. This is your boyfriend, though, yeah? Does he know about the wife?"

"I'm Sirius," said the young man. He had stopped chortling long enough for a swallow of Butterbeer and point over his shoulder. "That's Peter."

"We've met," said Thatcher. Although he spoke with a dead calm, Mad-Eye didn't miss his dark look and tightened features. They did not bother with kind words. Peter muttered something under his breath, but Thatcher seemed to not hear him, crushed his fingers with a handshake, and passed over any greeting whatsoever. Mad-Eye wondered about this, but he pretended to scan the bookshelves.

"Library Boy?"

"Yeah?"

"You can't count." Mad-Eye strode over and yanked out a volume; it was between twelve and fifteen. He shook the volume, shaking its pages. "No thirteen."

"Oh, I have it," said Dumbledore before Thatcher could string an answer together. He looked at the man a little longer than necessary as he walked over to the armoire and took out his travelling cloak. He picked up the bag, judging its weight with his fingers before he slung it over his shoulder. "I needed a second read. Is this all of it?"

Thatcher nodded.

"You're sure?" Dumbledore asked, looking at him carefully.

"Yes."

"Professor Dumbledore?"

"Yes?" Dumbledore finally broke eye contact and looked up at Meghan, who tapped him on the shoulder. Mad-Eye might have imagined it, but the professor sounded annoyed.

"You dropped this," she said, handing him a sealed roll of parchment.

Dumbledore looked at the open bag and zipped it closed, aware all the Order members watched his every move. He took it. "Thank you, Meghan. Geoffrey?"

"Yes, that's it," Thatcher assured him, speaking through clenched teeth. "Search the place, if you'd like, be my guest. We all know that's why you came here."

"Geoffrey," Dumbledore said softly.

"Shut up." Thatcher crossed his arms, forgetting his guests. "What do I have to do to prove myself to you? Just say it. Funny, isn't it, when I'm not your problem? You don't trust me worth a damn."

"I never said that."

Thatcher glared at his wife and held open his door. "Good night, Professor."

"You!"

Mad-Eye spotted him heading down to Diagon Alley. He slipped through before the bricks sealed the passageway. The place was less unpopulated during the evening hours. With the threat of the Death Eaters looming around, people just rearranged their lives because they felt safer in broad daylight. He had seen Thatcher in the Leaky Cauldron, and he was rather surprised he had not been accosted on the pub. If it had been him, he probably would have caused a little scene to get their attention; he didn't resort to that approach often because it really caused unnecessary drama, and there were easier ways to get what he wanted. Thatcher had avoided him like dragon pox these past few weeks like a bout of dragon pox. It wasn't an easy task, seeing as they were both workaholics. Mad-Eye considered recommending a transfer, passing him off as someone else's problem, but he went against his better judgement and kept an eye on the fool.

"Leave me alone!"

"No." Mad-Eye matched his step and took him by the arm. The man reeked of drink and tripped over his feet. "Shouldn't you be with your wife? She's expecting that kid any day now. Fine example you are, especially for that boy, eh? What would she think while she's sitting at home waiting for you?"

"You don't know a damn thing about me," Thatcher said, his voice echoing off the buildings.

"Where are you headed, lad?"

"Fuck off."

"All right, you're an angry drunk," Mad-Eye mused, finally managing to pull him over to the side. He was glad that this was off the record, for one thing, but he had as off the record, for one thing, but he had to remind himself not slap the idiot all the same. They passed a few shops and a proprietor passed them. "What's with the book?"

"What book?"

"Number thirteen, Library Boy," Mad-Eye said, handing for his umbrella. "I've known Dumbledore than you, haven't I? He doesn't just borrow things for no reason. Was it part of a rare collection or something? And, you, don't you panic when someone touches one of your precious books? You worked at some pub with an upstairs bookshop. Help me out here."

"Tattered Tavern in Edinburgh," said Thatcher.

"Yes, so you know the Dewey Decimal System like the back of your hand," said Mad-Eye. "Drink and books."

"Perfect combination," said Thatcher, waving his hand in the air. He had apparently forgotten his anger because he was enthralled in the conversation. "Especially when the manager asked us all to read aloud to groups, yeah, because the crowds just gathered there. You could be reading the worst stuff, complete shit, and they wouldn't care."

Mad-Eye nodded.

"Why would a bookkeeper, a nobody, want to be a Death Eater?"

"Quiet," Mad-Eye hissed in his ear.

"You want to know?" he said, louder with every word.

"No," Mad-Eye lied.

"A girl," Thatcher continued without preamble.

He waved away an unspoken objection; Mad-Eye felt quite sure that the man had forgotten his present company, but he was surprised at the tolerance level and how well the man handled himself. They sank onto a black bench; they had stopped outside of Flourish and Blotts. Thatcher, completely at his ease, took a lighter out of his pocket and played with the flame. He veered off a little, discussing the properties of fire: light, death, decay, protection, heat, survival. He hated fire, absolutely hated it, he said, but he was a pyromaniac, so he was amazed by it at the same time. Who wouldn't be? Thatcher smiled at him, and swam in his thoughts for a while. Under the glare of the lamplight, Mad-Eye noticed the burns that covered the man's fingers, especially his fingers, for not all of those had healed, which explained his calluses. While he spoke, Thatcher struck a few matches on the side of the box, waiting till the flame licked his fingers before he started another one. He reached in his pocket and withdrew four sharp blades and tapped these on his knee.

"About the girl," Mad-Eye prompted him, hoping to get him back on track.

"Oh, it wasn't Meghan, no, she ... she came later."

"Yeah, Dumbledore introduced you to her, I know."

"Yeah, he did." Thatcher nodded, reorganising his thoughts. "Stop interrupting me, will you? I'm a good storyteller, so let me say my shit."

"All right." Mad-Eye laughed at his lopsided expression. "Sorry. You were saying? It wasn't Meghan."

"Not her, no, though this'll clear up a few things." Thatcher edited a few things in his head. He must have decided to just cut to the chase because he said the next part as if they were discussing the weather. "Bellatrix Black."

"Come again?"

"Yeah, stupid, I know," said Thatcher, laughing in spite of the quivering fear in his tone. "I just woke up one day, the day of my initiation, and decided, 'You know what? She's married and you're the third wheel. Let her fuck the corpse'."

"And you ended up in the Thames?" asked Mad-Eye, filling in the holes.

"Damn straight." He held his face in his hands. "Jesus."

"That explains quite a lot about you and the Lestranges, actually," said Mad-Eye, chuckling. "And why you're so strict with Joss."

"What?"

"Oh, I'm just imagining her and Meghan. You swing off two extremes."

"Oh, yeah, well, that's ... yeah." Thatcher looked his around at his surroundings. "She's probably still up here. Meghan works here with the manager. I asked Alexander to stay with her during night shifts. Airhead, he is, words go in one ear and out the other. I left Joshua with Lily."

"You sure she'll give him back?"

"Yeah, he panics if he doesn't kiss Meghan good night. He fights sleep. Lily thinks he's cute now, but the kid's a monster."

"And you didn't warn her?"

"Hell, no. I figured they needed the practice." Thatcher opened the door. A bell rang above the door, announcing a new customer. The place was empty, and Thatcher had apparently expected this, because he wasn't bothered that nobody stood behind the counter working the till. He walked up an aisle, flipped through a book, and read through the introduction. Mad-Eye read a display about a new release called the Book _of Invisibility_ wondering idly where the damn things were stocked. "Meghan? It's me, Thatch!"

"Does she know you by that name?" Mad-Eye asked.

No answer.

"She's probably on the second floor," said Thatcher, stepping on the first stair and shaking the rickety banister with a light touch. "Why would she bother going up there? See? This is why I told Alex ..."

"Thatch ."

Mad-Eye silenced him and pointed to the window. He held his lit wand aloft, and light danced around the place. A trail of blood, broken only by Thatcher's footsteps, led all the way to the shattered window. Mad-Eye stepped round gingerly, trying not to disturb the scene, and examined bloody fingerprints on the windowpane. He backtracked, piecing a scenario in his mind. He shined the light on Thatcher's soles: blood splattered on the banister. Where was the Dark Mark?

"Don't move your hand." Mad-Eye whispered a spell and a silvery mass shot from the end of his wand into the night.

"Why?" Fear crept into Thatcher's voice; they were on the same page. Thatch shook his head, not wanting to consider it. "No. You always think of the worst case scenario. Not Meghan, she knew better. S-she would have tried to get out."

"She tried." Mad-Eye nodded at the window. "She's not up there. Doesn't she usually answer you? Think."

"Meg? Meghan? MEGHAN!" Thatcher ignored him and shouted as he run up the stairs, completely forgetting he was a trained wizard. He threw himself against the door, panicking. "It's locked!"

"Exactly," said Mad-Eye calmly, lifting his finger.

They would want to play with her, scare the hell out of her. Isn't it what he would do with someone at a disadvantage? He knew that Thatcher wasn't thinking clearly: it couldn't happen to him. Mad-Eye left the man there, swallowing the fear in his own throat. He had been through endless inspections, countless cases. On the whole, he had thought that he had grown numb to all of it. Nothing, even with the slight differences, surprised him. Many of the Death Eaters enjoyed playing their little games; that was how You-Know-Who picked them out one by one. The man knew that he was sick, and he loved using this to his advantage because it kept them all on pins and needles, guessing the next move. He wrapped himself these pleasures, delighted when they demonstrated their skills and talents.

His servants, and Mad-Eye suspected there were some he kept out of harm's way, his secret arsenal, so there were some one there they knew nothing about. How long had they known that Thatcher was on their side? Surely, You-Know-Who knew he worked within the Auror Department. Yes, he would have been tipped off the moment Thatcher met a Death Eater. It was probably that night he met Rabastan outside of Hyde Park? Mad-Eye had handed the whole thing over to him, testing his skills ... his loyalty. He hated thinking about it now: he had hoped the fool would fall on his face. Thatcher never asked for a helping hand, like most of them would have done. For all his talk about not being saved, Frank Longbottom could not deny that level of dedication. Library Boy burrowed himself inside those books, but that was how he calmed himself and touched base with reality. Frank handpicked Thatcher when everyone else doubted him: he saw something there.

A corporeal form, a ghostlike phoenix swooped through the door and delivered a calm message: "Five minutes." It evaporated.

He froze when he saw the hand. She lay in a pool of blood, her hand outstretched. She might have been sleeping, except for the life pouring from the deep slashes in her arms. Mad-Eye listened to heavy footsteps, but he did not turn round to see his face. Her figure was bloated and sweat covered her face. Mad-Eye took a step forward and erased any expression from his face. It was like he knew what was going to happen next. It frightened him, but he needed to be sure. Her black travelling cloak lay in the corner. Mad-Eye chose not to look underneath Meghan's dress because he doubted whether he could keep himself together. He picked up the small bundle and saw that it was a grey lifeless creature. Wet hair stuck to its scalp. How long had Meghan lain on this wooden floor, pleading, waiting for help?

"Someone helped her," he said softly. He finally looked over his shoulder. Thatcher knelt by his wife's side, brushing her arm, as if he was trying to wake her from a deep sleep. He kissed her soft lips before he lost it and dissolved into tears. He kept whispering a dead apology, begging her to come back. Mad-Eye tore his eyes away from them and got to his feet, holding the bundle in his arms. "Thatcher."

No answer.

"Thatch?" Mad-Eye glanced out the foggy window, knocking over the display. "Thatch – Thatcher, she's ... she's gone."

"Shut up."

Mad-Eye suspected they had tortured her within an inch of her life before leaving her for dead. He knew who specialised in that talent. Thatcher pulled a slip of parchment off of her hand and threw it at him.

Mad-Eye read the words and set the message aflame with the tip of his wand. Mad-Eye realised he didn't want to know the answer:

_She's beautiful. You want to die for her, too, my love?_


	2. Chapter 2:  Ashes to Ashes

Chapter Two: Ashes to Ashes

He usually got out of these occasions with the simplest excuses. The chase there and the war surrounded them from every angle. The public meant not want to hear a word of it, but this was no longer a mere threat anymore. For the first time since he joined the department Mad-Eye felt confused with no place to go; he didn't know his next move, so, strategically, even if he bothered to plan the next step, Mad-Eye was completely lost. Thankfully, Thatcher read well enough in between the lines, so he held his pain inside because he was past shedding tears.

Honestly, Mad-Eye bet the man never broke down and actually cried. Mad-Eye felt he was outside observer who really shouldn't have been there. This woman was a name, nothing else. All of this training could never have prepared him for what he saw in that bookstore; it was something that would never be erased his memory till the day he died. As a young Auror, he had consoled family after family. Looking back on all of those grievances and apologies, they came as a blur of faces, a flow of tears and a list of names. Nowadays, quite unfortunately, it was an ongoing list of names. Meghan had been kind and patient towards all of them, exceeding kind to a group of strangers. He might have passed her in the street without a word, and the brief meeting was certainly hidden under the facade of niceties. Things he felt sure, or at least he wanted to believe, the others did not waste a second thought. Meghan was a beautiful woman in many respects, as he had said, yet he couldn't understand why he cared.

He wrapped the travelling cloak round his shoulders. Winter bit at his fingers. Somehow or another, he had weaved out the possibility of any Ministry tribunal, and he credited help for this quick move. It's not that the officials seriously suspected that he actively participated in killing a fellow Auror's wife, for that would prove these daff fools really were pulling at snipped strings. Dumbledore and he hadn't spoken since that night. Of course, by the same token, he wasn't stupid enough to blame the old man for a death when he had not been there. Nobody had been officially charged with the double murder, at least that's how Mad-Eye saw it, and the rumours of the story slipped through the cracks. Meghan's friends were under the impression that she had died in childbirth. Apparently, that line wasn't that far-fetched because Joshua had been presumed dead, a stillborn, till he took a raspy breath, and miscarriages ran in the family.

Thatcher hadn't resorted to suicide. There wasn't much keeping him from death. Lily had stepped up and taken responsibility for the little boy. Although she immediately reminded him of family devotion and all of that cock and bull, she thought it best to give him space. She couldn't imagine his loss. The boy hadn't been told a damn thing. How would any of them muster the strength to break everything in his world? Not Mad-Eye: no, he'd stay the hell out of that mess. Sensitivity had never been his forte. He tried not to ponder when the kid's mind drifted, wandering why they had left his mother behind.

He took Lily's proffered arm as he started up the steep hill. As usual, the rain poured down in buckets. He lost a shoe every so often. When the artificial leg got stuck, this created a handful of mobility problems. It was a pain to clean. Honestly, he didn't need the girl's assistance, nor had he wanted to land himself at a funeral, yet it gave her a sense of purpose. She got really attached. Once or twice, he told her this was a flaw. He might have mentioned it again, but Lily seemed really disappointed, almost on the verge of tears, that they couldn't carry out Meghan's last wishes. Living within the confides of a fledgling secret society demanded private ceremonies be held in a quiet setting, that is, if one of them was indeed carried out at all. Mad-Eye looked over his shoulder and nodded at a dark silhouette.

Thatcher had gotten up early and had probably been here for hours. Perhaps he had not moved from that very spot. Did the man bother to look at his ancient pocket watch or did he just let the time pass? A black car was parked on the curb. Thatcher leaned against an old tree, giving no notion that he was remotely close to any of these people; a redhead had a draped veil over her pale features and sniffled in a laced handkerchief. Lily whispered that she was a mother-in-law or something of the sort. Mad-Eye shrugged it off, wondering why these dumb fools had not a single one of his letters. The congregated round a handsome mahogany casket like gathering vultures circling decaying prey.

"He hasn't said a word?" Lily carried the small boy in her arms. Joshua acted strangely around strangers, according to Thatcher, yet he latched onto Lily like a magnet.

"No."

"He's barely eaten or slept either."

"You're observant."

Lily ignored the jab. "How long were they married?"

"Nine years."

Lily glanced at the unfamiliar faces. She wasn't one to ask endless questions, which is why he preferred her company. Mad-Eye had been initially against Dumbledore bringing a young crowd into the group, and he made no secret of it either, and the fact that they were close friends only worried him more because their naivety led them; they understood almost nothing about death . Of all people, Peter Pettigrew proved his weight by helping his friends out of trouble. Without many of the touchy details, Mad-Eye pieced together how the Potters had ended up with the Death Eaters, and the fat, watery-eyed kid would have been the last one he ran one he would have ran to for help. Things happened. Mad-Eye hesitated to call this an act of heroism, but the boy wasn't as stupid as he appeared at first.

Lily held the large umbrella over him without waiting for an invitation. Mad-Eye grimaced at the kid when he turned his curly blonde head. His little hands were clutched round Lily's neck. His lanky legs wrapped round her torso, and she tolerated the clinging child well, seeing as he was an orphan. Now that he saw kid as more than a little nuisance, he saw that he looked like a cross between his parents and shared their features. He had Meghan's eyes, which took him off guard, sending a shiver up his spine. The kid closed his eyes after a while, fighting sleep.

"James held him until he fell asleep this morning," said Lily.

She was dressed in another simple ensemble, which made Mad-Eye question why she decided against wearing robes. They attended these services so often these days; it had turned into a hobby. Mad-Eye had not spotted Lily's husband or any of his friends. Alice and Frank Longbottom joined the flock at the casket after the service.

"By morning," she said, "they probably drifted off while I was getting ready and finding directions."

"How did he manage it?"

"He didn't." Lily rolled her green eyes. "He snuck off to Sirius's place for a bed. Of course, Peter and Remus are there, so that defeats any purpose."

Mad-Eye snorted.

Time. They said it was all he needed, so Mad-Eye followed any suggestion the fools handed him; he made it a point not to force any of this to make a lick of sense. The door stood open, not for sympathy, yet he couldn't just let him go because none of them had a right to judge anything. There was no telling what Thatcher would do with unleashed emotions. Truth be told, he hated the man on principle, and, until he heard the full story, Mad-Eye refused to let his guard down and trust the stranger simply because he had been introduced to the Order and possessed these do-called impressive 'talents'.

Thatcher revealed everything to him; that's what he said, whatever that meant. He started off with a rough introduction, and things got easier, a confession rolled off of his tongue as if he had made a comment on the weather. Well, he decided not to waste his time. Dumbledore and he shared these disagreements from time to time. It was usually over daily matters. Thatcher might very be an innocent man who had walked away before he had gotten in too deep. Mad-Eye stood his ground, never wavering with the fancy phrases of a decorated discussion, because he lived under the influence of this cock and bull rhetoric.

Few people stepped back and listened to the words. The fool certainly wasn't clueless because he had a valuable point here and there. He mastered the act of logical persuasion in ways that Mad-Eye only dreamed. People admired the work behind the art, and Mad-Eye had learned that Dumbledore felt comfortable hiding behind all the brilliance and the cleverness. The greatest wizard of the age made mistakes, too, but nobody spent their time searching for those. Mad-Eye argued with the man for as long as the day was long, but it boiled down to the fact that they were friends through thick and thin.

As interest wound down and the pathos dripped from the attraction, Thatcher edged slowly towards his wife. He said nothing to the nearby priest, who masked his offence well, and knelt on the damp grass. Like a disgusting dose of medicine, he choked up before he shared these last moments with her. The words made no sense, for they came in through rushed breaths. Exhausted, he ran his fingers along the polished grain, whispering to his wife. The priest dressed in purple robes approached him cautiously, a Rosary laced through his fingers. He looked too young, far too young to play the part.

"No." Thatcher didn't look away from the casket; he placed an entwined white lily and yellow rose on top of the other carnations.

"Geoffrey," the priest said softly.

"No," Thatcher repeated, clutching his fists. He sounded defeated, weak. His voice was hoarse, weak from lack of use. "Go away. Leave me with my wife, please."

The priest looked like he had given up, and he started to walk away, but he was a stubborn bastard. "Meghan wouldn't have wanted this ..."

"What makes you think you knew her? Meghan's at peace?" Thatcher laughed harshly. "You want to help me? Bring my wife back. Go on. What does that damn book tell you?"

"I ... I ..." the young priest stammered.

"With all due respect, father, mind you, I have none for your damn Church, not anymore, fuck off."

The priest stood frozen, lost for words. Mad-Eye fought to drown his laughter. Lily gaped at the weary man. Slowly, he swallowed and recovered. "S-she needs a name."

"The child? Maybe Meghan left something in here," said Lily softly. She leafed through another prayer book. This one looked older and had photographs between the pages. She read from what they presumed to be the mother's hand. "Rachelle Maria Nielson. She hasn't been baptised."

"Very well." The priest jotted down a note and left after he said a quick goodbye.

"Where'd you get that?" Thatcher snatched the prayer book from her, reeling with anger. Lily stepped back, possibly thinking he would hit her. He waved it on her face. Startled, Joshua jerked from an elusive nap. "Come on. You're brave enough to meddle with things that don't concern you. Speak."

"I – I thought you would want it," said Lily, surprised. "I found it in her things last night."

"I took it out of her satchel," offered Dumbledore, stepping in front of Lily when Thatcher reached inside his robes. "It was upstairs, lying in the chair, in the Reading Room."

"Why were you at the bookstore?" Thatcher demanded.

"Alexander needed someone," said Dumbledore simply. He flicked his wand once and caught a grey bag. He tossed it to Thatcher. "I figured you didn't want it sitting up in evidence."

The Auror Department bid their time, waiting with an endless list of questions, ready to pounce at any disturbance to cast suspicion off them. Crouch called for enough change recently with the roaring rally shouting behind him. He initiated change, and everybody assumed this was a step in the right direction. New legislation seemed like the perfect fix, and the cracks didn't creep through till later. There was no protection and no regulation on the playing field. From what Mad-Eye had seen, this only sparked fear; the unpredictable problems escalated with control.

Mad-Eye hoped to make this idiot someone else's problem and he jerked his head towards the Longbottom couple. "Stick him with them."

"Alastor," said Dumbledore with a bite of impatience.

If the man refused to open up to Frank Longbottom, they had no hope. Perhaps they took the wrong approach here. Why would they separate him from his boy, who was essentially the only person he had left, when they could shack up with friends? Frank did things tactfully, and he would make the man comfortable before he reeled off a heated interrogation or suggested psychoanalysis; he read people well, and Thatcher might not see anything out of the ordinary if he played his cards right. The two of them had developed some sort of friendship, and Alice presented a nice counter to his flighty personality. She was no clueless lass, that girl. No, she played the game with incredible ease. Technically, the Potters weren't friends, mere acquaintances, but little Joshua might as well be attached to Lily's hip.

"No, Mad-Eye," Lily cut in before he made the suggestion. "What are James and I going to do with him? He barely knows us, and James will press the Order. You know that."

"He doesn't want in," Mad-Eye said, already shot down.

"Exactly," Lily said, shifting Joshua's weight in her arms. Mad-Eye had to hand it to her; the girl stood her ground with quite an arsenal. "Do you want to push him further away? You laugh. Our place is the closest thing Joss has to a stable environment. You want to show him a mad father? That man," she said, jabbing a finger at Thatcher's back and lowering her voice, "has no idea who the hell he is. And you just want him to pick up where he left off? No."

"What 'stable environment' has this boy been in for the past week? You're irrational," Mad-Eye growled her and turned to Dumbledore for support.

"Alastor," Dumbledore repeated. "Speak to him."

"Hell, no," said Mad-Eye roughly, realising he was losing ground. He rolled his glass eye towards the grey sky. "You owe me."

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed. Mad-Eye thought he imagined the disguised laughter.

"Are you enjoying this?" Mad-Eye spun round and focused on his expression. As far as he was concerned, they would have been much better off demanding the truth up front.

He took a step towards the man. It wouldn't be easy quieting the prejudices that corroded his brain. These people overlooked just about anything. After all, this man was once a Death Eater. Yeah, he had bowed out at the last minute, but they had obviously seen something in him. Thatcher withdrew a silver lighter from his pocket. Unconsciously, he pressed the side button. The flame licked his fingers, yet instead of a quick reflex, he responded to the calming motion, relaxing his nerves. Not once did the pyromaniac bother with pulling out a cigarette or a cigar. When the lighter fluid gave out, he started working through a matchbook.

Mad-Eye cleared his throat. "You got a light?"

Nothing.

He hadn't really expected an answer. This usually bothered him, not that he wanted to be placed on a pedestal or the centre of attention. Mad-Eye had honestly tried to put himself in this man's shoes. He treaded carefully. Mad- Eye disliked the lingering scent of tobacco, and they all, knew this damn well. Sometimes, he received tokens from strangers. Especially during those daunting cases where he ran circles, a simple thank you or a warm smile of relief meant everything to him. Death angered people because they usually wanted to know why. Some of them found strength and comfort in religion. He had learned not to say anything relevant, especially as an opener. Women wanted a shoulder to cry on. Men resorted to fluent swearing and hitting things. There was a cigar in the inside pocket of his robes. With no other option, an addiction they both detested provided common ground.

Thatcher spared him the small talk. "How old is she?"

Mad-Eye scanned hiss view, confused. "Lily?"

"Yeah." He accepted the cigar and lit the end of it.

"Nearly twenty, I think," Mad-Eye said after a minute. Curiosity got the better of him. Thatcher faked a personality on a regular basis. It was difficult to tell if he truly cared about the details. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason."

The two men stood lost in their private thoughts. Thatcher spoke softly, dead calm. His son let the young woman distract him, which she did quite well, having quite a knack for this sort of thing. Honestly, although it clearly frustrated her, Lily dealt with Thatcher not being there. After they had finally coaxed him out of the bookstore, he had headed off to the Ministry, claiming a mountain of parchment rolls waited for him. Work provided a distraction. Few fools actually attempted useless questions, and most of them avoided making eye contact or cracking a joke in his presence. The department head didn't want to let him in the doors, but he agreed to bury him in busy work.

"That's when Meghan lost the baby, the first one."

Mad-Eye hid his surprise. Why was this man telling him this? "Was she engaged?'

"Yeah, to someone named Zabini," said Thatcher, inhaling deeply and coughing. "I came later."

"Right."

"He left her." Thatcher wiped his face, rubbing his fingers along a stubby beard. He had no shaved in days. He would have stayed in bed had Mad-Eye not dragged him along to the funeral. He felt grateful that he had finally put down the bottle and decided to shower. Emotion leaked through his voice. Reality had not set in; nothing eclipsed the depression. He nodded. "Yeah, he got fed up after the third one passed, so they didn't last long. He made a stupid decision walking out on her because she loved him till the day she ..."

"Thatch."

"No, she did. She did. I saw it." Thatcher let the tears fall and shook his head. He punched the decayed tree. "Damn it. We lost four, five if you count this one. Did you know that?"

"No." Mad-Eye had debated whether or not he should offer to take Thatcher out for a drink after the service. He thought better of it now because it sounded like a disaster waiting in the wings, a rush of catharsis.

"I didn't know she named her," Thatch said, picking at the weathered bark. "So close."

"How old is your boy?"

"Seven."

"His birthday was last week," said Lily, oblivious to their looks. They had not considered that someone overheard their conversation. She brushed a dark lock out of her eyes. "Remember? It was the night Thatch left Joss with us because he needed a drink."

Thatcher finished off his cigar and stamped it out. Lily opened her mouth, replaying the words in her head and releasing her mistake.

"Shut up." Thatch pushed past her and yanked his son from her. He looked her up and down, disgusted. "You've got everything, don't you, princess? You're a good babysitter, yeah, so you're ready?"

"Thatch." Mad-Eye put a hand on his shoulder.

"You have no fucking idea!"

"Thatch." Lily matched his step. Mad-Eye let her go, yet she started unnecessary drama.

"You're blowing smoke up a dead horse's arse, miss," Mad-Eye warned her, shaking his head.

"Mr. Nielson! Thatcher...Geoffrey!"

Lily chose not to listen to others once she got into her stride; he temporarily forgot that. She marched up to him in those dainty little heels, ignoring whoever called her name. Mad-Eye thought he ought to put a stop to this; on second thought, he'd rather see how this played out. She set Joshua on the ground. Mad-Eye had thought the little one had trouble walking or something, but it turned out he just liked to be cared round. Since this had been his only surviving son, Mad-Eye had expected this would be a spoiled brat for the ages, but the kid hadn't hogged attention or made a peep. Thatcher must have decided long ago to raise his children with a firm hand and set rules.

James appeared out of nowhere, or, at least, none of them had taken note that he had arrived earlier. Dressed in a white t-shirt emblazoned with some nonsense symbol and a pair of jeans, he looked as though he had passed the night hanging with some Muggle crowd. He was seated behind Sirius, who rested his hands on the handlebars of his black motorbike. They wore identical grins, begging the question, which is exactly what they needed at the moment. Ready with a piece of his mind, a stream of fiery insults, Mad-Eye nearly it out of the corner of his eye. Thatcher struck. Shocked, tears in her eyes, Lily backed off.

A second later, Thatcher looked as though he had been yanked but invisible marionette strings. He hung upside down, dangling by his angle. He glided over to the tree and slammed his head on a decayed branch.

"You really want to rethink that one, mate," James said conversationally, holding his wand quite steady. "Think it over while the blood rushes to your head."

Thatcher swore. Frightened, Joshua screamed and hurried over to James, tripping over his trainer laces.

"Fine example you're setting for your son," James grunted, picking up the kid. "I'm sure Meghan wanted this as part of her send off. Touch Lily again and see what happens."

Thatcher crashed to the ground, inches from the ground. The casket had floated into an open grave. One of the keepers had charmed shovels to do their work. A grey tombstone levitated in the air and locked down at the site. Dumbledore muttered phrases under his breath and words etched into the stone as though a fine mason had marked his talent:

_Meghan Reagan Nielson and her daughter, Rachelle Maria, _

_In honour of those who hushed Dead Silence and Walked through Fire, _

_Friend, Daughter, Mentor, Wife, Mother, Sister, Lover _

_Time cannot erase the flames of thy burning Midnight Taper _

"You're angry, and I understand that," said Dumbledore, still looking at the words. He set a slip of parchment aflame. The ashes fell onto the wet grass before he turned towards the widow. Thatcher rubbed his wrist; he brushed a scorch mark. Dumbledore put a hand on his shoulder. "But you are not the only one who lost her, I promise you."

Mad-Eye took the man none too gently by the arm. He muttered a rushed apology out of the side of his mouth to Lily, who wiped her eyes and said it wasn't necessary. He wasn't in the office, and, although nothing pieced together, he would take advantage to pummel this bastard off the record. Forget the girl. Lily had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She had provoked him, not that she deserved to be his target whatever she might have said, but she should have left the boy out of it nonetheless. Thankfully, Mad-Eye didn't have any kids, nor did he spend time with any little ones. He watched people, though, especially young families. These days, he observed more than he'd like to admit because people dropped like flies left, right and centre.

Dumbledore broke eye contact with Thatcher. He disappeared when he reached the dead tree. Mad-Eye held out his other arm. Somebody screamed. A familiar sensation swept over them. Thatcher had not bothered with a good grip because he despised this form of transportation. He probably regretted that now, seeing as his nasal was yanked back by an Egyptian ritual. Mad-Eye hadn't really had a destination in mind; they just needed to get somewhere else. If Meghan's family had seen such behaviour, this scenario could have ended up much worse. Mad-Eye, for one, probably would have not acted respectable. Dumbledore often stepped in to cover for them when he should simply let it go. Suddenly, Mad-Eye felt his arm twist, rather like they spun out of control. Thatcher had a split second to make a correction; the earth slipped from underneath them. For a moment, just a moment their bodies suspended in free fall; they slammed into a hard surface.

"You idiot," Mad-Eye growled, clambering to his feet. He ducked a flash of green light, and someone pulled him behind a gravestone of one Mary Kelly Irving. He reached out and slapped Thatcher on the back on the back of the head. "You can't choose two locations in Side-Along Apparition!"

"Yeah, well, I'm not really focused on that now," said Thatcher. His hand was Splinched, and blood coursed from the wound. He laid the blades there, closed his eyes and flicked a new orange lighter. The soaked matchbook was in a puddle. He muttered something in a Latinate tongue. A fiery sphere revolved around the blades. "I need a chopping block."

"Chopping block? Fool!"

"Sorry." Thatcher released his weapon, flexing his fingers. Spells flew round them in colourful explosions. The blades shot towards the priest. The weapon nearly missed the jugular, for Thatcher mastered his aim, but the target had trained reflexes. Mad-Eye didn't know when the man returned, but he was engaged in the middle of a duel with Lily. The disguise fell and a figure with dark tresses transformed in front of them, cackling with merciless laughter. The purple roes no longer fit her frame. Thatcher jumped over the grave and charged forward at top speed. "Bitch!"

Mad-Eye chose Evan Rosier as his target. He didn't see the Longbottoms. Perhaps they had slipped out without any of them noticing. James shouted something to Thatcher, but his warning fell to deaf ears. James and Sirius worked on a set of walking corpses, the Lestrange brothers, flying off and curse that popped in their heads. It was clear that Lily had never met Bellatrix because she seemed surprised by the mastered skill. Mad-Eye chased Rosier and made a mistake when he led him into a maze. Stone figurines shattered all around the place. They were within feet of the other duellers; Bellatrix clearly enjoyed this dance with the dead. James shouted over his shoulder at his wife. Thatcher jumped in between the two women, taking control of the duel. Lily screamed when James fell down, falling over white chairs.

"Lily," Thatcher shouted, snapping her back to attention as he sent a red jet of light towards Bellatrix. Mad-Eye saw him cast a protective shield in the distance before he blocked another spell. "Where is Joshua?"

Mad-Eye felt a searing pain. He felt the blood, but he kept his arm quite steady and shouted, "i Petrificus Totalus/i!" His opponent crashed into the monastery entrance, flying down ages of steps.

He felt his face and tried to locate the source of the bleeding as he joined Sirius and leapt over one a small grave. One of the Lestranges set up another defence. One brother escaped, his corporeal form slipped right through Mad-Eye's fingers. Angry, he shot a spell at the other one, relieving Sirius. Apparently, Roldolphus remembered this move; they had been in this dance before and it never ended. Mad-Eye thought he had the man in his grasp. A body, a skeleton with bits of skin, rose from a fresh grave. Mad-Eye laughed. A fiery lasso shot ignited from the end of his wand. He bound the fool with the enchanted creation.

"Missed you, my love," Bellatrix said in a high pitched voice. She laughed when Thatcher shot a green flash at her. He missed. "Are you really that angry with me, darling?"

"You are fine," said Thatcher nastily. He jerked his head in the opposite direction. "You have that thing in your bed. We had our chance, Bella, but I was a just a naive pawn in your stupid little game. It was rather childish, really, but I guess that means you weren't satisfied. It's a shame, really, because you really were something special."

"Where is your love?" Bellatrix changed directions, circling him. Mad-Eye jerked Rodolphus up by the neck. The scent of death bothered him, but all he really smelled was the iron of his own flowing blood. Lily had grabbed the crying little boy, and the other witch didn't miss her opportunity. She pulled Thatcher closer, stroking his hair. She whispered something in his ear, laughing when he pushed her away from him.

Thatcher had missed his mark before, but he caught his blades and pressed one to her throat.

"Do it," Bellatrix encouraged him. "Show these fools who you really are. A life for a life, Thatcher, it's only fair."

Thatcher nicked her throat and dropped his knife. "Get your husband and get out of my sight."

Bellatrix looked truly disappointed. She turned away from him and turned to Lily, who had just revived James. Mad-Eye released the spell, incinerating the corpse, cremating it, and relinquished the dark hold. With no other option, Bellatrix caught Rodolphus and supported his weight. She nodded to her cousin. Sirius grinned and led Joshua over to his father. Joshua sighed when his father picked him up; his laughter leaked through his fear. Thatcher ran his good hand through the boy's curls and he kissed his head.

"He's forgotten you," said Sirius. "You made your bed, love, live with it."

"You'll regret this, Thatcher, trust me," Bellatrix before she disappeared into thin air.

"You!" Mad-Eye sighed as Lily took his jaw and healed the gaping hole in his head. He couldn't see Thatcher, but he made his point. Sirius helped the other Auror, and let out a bark. Mad-Eye kicked the ground with his peg leg, surprised when he something. It was a thick volume that must have been forgotten by one of the Death Eaters. "I will kill you!" 

"Sure you will," Lily said in a bored voice as she pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face. "Hold still. I don't think you're getting that back."

"You owe him a nose, mate," Sirius said. "Can you get one of those in the black market?"

"Can he get a snout that specializes in ugly? I doubt it." James howled with laughter, catching his glasses as they slipped off his face. He held a stitch at his side. "Stop, mate, stop making me laugh, it hurts."

"Sell him," Mad-Eye said darkly, pointing at James.

"Working on it." Lily winked at him. She has siphoned most of the blood off of him. "You hit olfactory artery, but it's all right. It looks worse than it actually is. Are you all right?"

"Yeah." Mad-Eye took her hand. He walked over to Meghan's grave and took a white rose out of his buttonhole. He laid it on the cold stone. "What's that book?"

"I don't think they got into it because it's sealed," Lily said, handing it over to him. Mad-Eye stroked the spine and traced his fingers along the engraved numerals. "Thirteen?"

"I wonder how they got their hands on it," Mad-Eye mused, throwing the volume to Thatcher. "Let's see if it's a good read, shall we? What say you, Library Boy?"


	3. Chapter 3:  Banned Book

_Months passed without a single word, and soon the seasons __hinted at a warm summer. It was a particularly warm summer at that; this one would stick in his memory, with nothing to the heat. No, Mad-Eye adjusted to the change with lighter clothing. The attacks escalated, which only spiked fear in their hearts, and panic often caused people to make careless decisions. This guaranteed him a job, but it exhausted him at the same time. Officers used to avoid him like the plague, and he preferred it that way because nobody bothered him, but now they swarmed on him like killer bees with buzzing questions. The forty hour work week seemed like a figment of a forgotten dream. He kept his mouth shut, for he soon realised this career put him on hit lists the deeper he searched for these secrets. _

_He escaped when things got too hectic. Nobody complained when he strolled in too late or left the place too early because he carried his cases with him. Nothing had changed, for they all chased different leads in the parchment trail, yet something seemed different; he couldn't put his finger on it. Indistinct voices and shaded faces swam into his dreams, so he operated on interrupted sleep cycles along with the edginess. The odds were against them, the odds cornered them, despite whatever cock and bull stories the press released. Reporters needed to put bread on their table, too, he supposed, yet it bothered him that some of their snippets put others in jeopardy. When nothing made sense in a time of panic, people logically looked towards the government for answers. Yeah, Crouch shuffled the cards a little, but they really had no idea what they were doing. So, because he couldn't sleep in the cubicle, Mad-Eye found himself walking the streets round midnight. _

_The flat building had poor lighting. They ought to think about that while they worked on managing the landscaping. Mad-Eye closed his umbrella when he reached the stone staircase; the thing intersected at almost every opening, and he didn't particularly like the feeling of the rickety banister. After four flights, he felt quite winded and counted off the doors till he reached twenty-seven. Perhaps he should have sent an owl ahead. It would have been a courteous gesture, and he wouldn't fly into a panic. He knocked three times and brushed his grey locks out of his eyes. When nobody answered, he started worrying. Knowing that never ended up well, he invited himself in. _

_He closed the door behind him, careful not to make any sound and guided himself with the help of his lit wand. Even though he had never been here before, nothing looked out of the ordinary. Cardboard boxes were stacked precariously along the neutral coloured walls. There was an old couch and a second hand coffee table; the carpet did not flow into the kitchenette. Dinner had been served because the dishes clinked together, washing themselves. An Auror ought to have better security measures, for one thing, but he supposed there was nothing of value worth taking. Mad-Eye locked the door and tossed his bag on the table. He considered leaving a note and slipping out of the place. A noise startled him, and he ran down the narrow corridor holding his wand aloft. He kicked open the third door to the left. He immediately threw up a hand and shielded his eyes. _

"_Geoffrey," a soft voice sighed, slowly gaining conviction. "Geoff."_

"_Thank you," the man said, collapsing onto her and lifting his head off of her shoulder. He turned round, following her gaze. A few seconds later, he threw a hard object at Mad-Eye's head and shouted, "Jesus! Do you mind?" _

"_Sorry, sorry, I thought ... it doesn't matter." _

"_You people can't give it a rest," Thatcher said, pulling on a house robe and the young woman with dark hair covered herself with the bed linens. Thatcher brushed his hair out of his eyes and joined Mad-Eye in the corridor, slamming the bedroom door. "Can't I just have one night alone with my wife without you lot breathing down my neck?" _

_Mad-Eye held his tongue and sat down. He didn't want to start an argument when he was the one who had walked in on the man, and, besides, he was trying to erase what he just witnessed from memory. __Thatcher slammed things round when they got into the kitchen and started a fresh pot of coffee; he man drank the stuff like water. A conservation starter didn't surface, so he watched the man fire up a skilled and raid the pantry. He put bread in the toaster. A half a dozen eggs popped as he chopped up random ingredients, leftovers, for his late night breakfast concoction. _

"_You allergic to anything?" asked Thatcher __as he spooned out eggs and caught the toast. _

"_No, I ..." Mad-Eye started. He shut up when the man slid a hot plate under his nose, handed him a fork, and pulled up a chair. He sniffed it and took a bite. Mad-Eye waved his fork over the plate, deciding he liked the flavour even though he couldn't identify half of what was in the thing, and complimented the cook. "This isn't half bad, lad, you do this often?" _

"_Only on late nights," said Thatcher, laying on the guilt as he jerked his head towards his own work. He added sugar and rum to his coffee and stirred it with his fork. Open books lay at his elbow; the bookworm lost himself in a story during meals. No offer came for a cup, and they ate in silence for a while. Not one for small talk and playing round with preambles, he stabbed a dried tomato with his fork and asked, "Why are you here?" _

"_I want you to go on assignment," Mad-Eye said, pushing the bag over to him. Sceptical, Thatcher took his time before he opened it, and the supplies offered no clear answer till he reached a sealed envelope. The envelope was slit open with the tip of his wand once the wax was broken. Thatcher's grey eyes narrowed as he read each line. Mad-Eye soaked up egg with his bread. "Tell me what you know about Bellatrix Black." _

"_Nothing," said Thatcher said quickly, throwing the parchment down at though he was afraid it would harm him. He shook his head, not waiting for instructions, nor did it seem that he wanted to finish the discussion. He got to his feet and pretended to consult his watch. He waved his wand and the dishes dived into the soapy solution. "Look, it's late, and we have a really early day tomorrow, no, today, so I'd really like some sleep."  
_

_Mad-Eye hid his disappointment. "What's wrong with you?" _

"_Nothing." _

"_Liar." _

"_And you wonder why nobody likes you?" _

"_Thatcher." _

"_Look, this'll take time, right? You have nothing to go on at the moment, and you'll set up your pawn, me, to track her. That can take months, really, chasing possible leads ..." _

"_Yeah," Mad-Eye said slowly. He saw no problem. _

"_It's my wife," Thatcher said in a rush, snatching a dishtowel off of the oven door handle and weaving it through his fingers. He sounded as though he was pulling something out of the air, searching for an excuse. "S-she's expecting, pregnant, you see, and I really don't want to miss that, and I can't leave her alone because there's this thing with her system. It blocks the foetus or something; I don't know the terminology ..." _

"_You're raving," Mad-Eye sighed in a bored voice. He passed a hand over his face, tired, but he thought it was best not to bring up the fact he knew about his son. "Not good enough." _

"_Not good enough?" Thatcher repeated, examining his bandaged left hand. He abandoned the mug for the bottle, breathing deeply when the spiced rum burned his throat. He pointed in the direction of the corridor. "Ah, I see what this is. You don't have any kids, yeah? You think I'm chickening out? This is my life, Mad-Eye, and if you think I haven't risked my neck for them ... she doesn't know the half of it." _

"_Do tell," Mad-Eye said, pulling his hip flask out of his robes and taking a swig. _

"_What are you? My priest?" Thatcher's patience burned up fast, especially when he felt cornered. Mad-Eye doubted if he ever made it through confession, for as__ much as he leaned on his faith. He waved his hands, waving away the temptation. "No, not her." _

"_Come again?" _

_The temptation dripped from the man's voice like drink. And Thatcher was rather fond of his drink, accepting any pub invitation after his shift. Really, Mad-Eye hated admitting it, but other than another young Auror called Kingsley Shacklebolt, who flew through his training with flying colours, Thatcher was one of the best assets they had ever stumbled upon. He had walked in the department looking like he had just wandered off of the streets, and he had initially been dismissed without the promise of an interview due to his appearance. Mad-Eye could have accepted a leadership position on the board ages ago, despite the fact that he was rather unconventional, but he loved the thrill of the chase, and his experience gave him certain privileges, such as handpicking trainees. He saved Thatcher's neck that day because he played the right cards. Some things were conveniently left out, that he had pulled the suicidal drunk out of the water, for instance, because, he, Mad-Eye had a reputation to uphold, and he wouldn't be cast into suspicion for a fool who ought to have thought about a bar of soap before acting on a life changing decision. _

_He didn't understand the phantoms of this man's mind. _

Frank Longbottom liked to call this meeting a book club. The young man hid all of his facial expressions behind a mask, so it was difficult to tell whether he intended that as sadistic humour or if he was really trying an attempt at throwaway facetiousness. Alice once said he had not come with a sense of humour, and for evidence of the matter, all anyone had to do was look at his mother. They counteracted the other's personality, so the bookworm and friendliness types worked well together. When he had the opportunity of training the trainees as they walked through the door, Mad-Eye nearly dismissed both of them because Alice struggled with a delayed disguise and Frank had showed up late due to family issues with some strange bloke called Algie. They had only been acquaintances in school, seeing as Frank was the young woman's senior by four years, yet they somehow hit it off when they reached the department. Mad-Eye tried to warn him about favouritism and getting involved with other officers, and it worked for a while.

He didn't hold all the cards in his hand, and he couldn't make all of their plays. One look at Alice now showed just how well that plan worked. Mad-Eye was not bitter about this. In fact, if that kept two of the best minds in the department sane, the arrangement suited him just fine. As summer rolled round, Alice had pretty much confined herself to desk duty; whenever she got the option to pick where she started docking the parchment trail, she started with Mad-Eye. Perhaps she thought this kept him in good spirit, but, honestly, he just loved giving her shit. He could care less how much they landed him with these days.

"Kitchen, Mad-Eye," a voice called.

He slipped in and leaned against the wall. Apparently, she opted not to change out of her pyjamas or the faded blue house robe today. Her thick hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, but a warm smile was still pasted on her face.

"How did you know it was me?"

"The scraping of the leg couldn't have given it away," she said sarcastically, tossing a roll onto a disorganised stack. She propped a book against an empty jug.

"Merlin, woman, it's as cold as an icebox in here," he said. He helped himself to a glass of red wine after it passed the test and read over her shoulder. "What are we looking at?"

"Words regurgitated onto paper?" Alice ran her finger along a complicated list of symbols and notations. "What time is it?"

"Nearly eight," said Mad-Eye as he checked his watch. He limped around the small kitchen, snooping. He lifted the lid off of a large silver pot and took a hearty sniff. A mixture of onions, carrots, parsnip halves, meaty chunks, and cabbage, it smelled delicious, and he was surprised it hadn't registered as soon as he stepped inside the flat. "Beef stew?"

"Help yourself," Alice said, not looking up at him. "Check it for poison."

"Mrs. Longbottom's here?" Mad-Eye guessed, ladling a healthy measure into a bowl. He added salt before he even took a mouthful.

"_Yes_." Alice rolled her eyes and spoke through gritted teeth. "At least Frank gets to escape. She's been here since eight-thirty this morning because, apparently, I can't be trusted to feed myself or clean house. I don't know how I do anything without my wonderful husband because he's a genius and I need work, especially with my looks because I have no figure."

"She said that?" Frank walked through the swinging doors. They had a small breakfast nook off to the side. The adjoined room was supposed to be a dining room, but they used it as an office and a library. Lanky as ever, he fit in the skinniest trousers and covered a lot of ground with those legs. He wiped his glasses on his cotton shirt and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. "Mad-Eye?"

Mad-Eye lifted the wine glass.

"You drink through that like water," Alice said as he walked over to her. He tapped her teacup and it refilled itself. She squeezed his hand. "You want to call Thatch?"

Mad-Eye hadn't noticed it before, but the Potters sat in the adjoined sitting room. How had he missed them? Well, he supposed his eye glazed over the stacks of cardboard boxes and packaged things because the place looked like a refuge home. Kids not only caused pointless egocentric drama, but they broke the bank by the looks of this jungle. The Longottoms needed a bigger place because this wasn't cutting it; Alice had raved when they first signed the application, and she probably put her foot down and refused it move an inch. It was in a good location, especially for a London flat, and the renter favoured them as tenants because they kept out of her hair. Alice wasn't very athletic, and she made no secret of it, but he imagined four flights was a hell of a climb these days.

"Are you comfortable?" Mad-Eye called. Lily sat on the couch; James rested his head on her large stomach and covered the length of the couch; his right leg dangled off the side. She was working her way through texts. "Does he always snore like that? Sounds like a foghorn signalling to ships in the harbour, doesn't he?"

"You get used to it. Don't bother," she said as Mad-Eye started to rise to get the book she had just dropped. "It's got nothing in it. Yes, Frank, I'm with Alice. We need Thatcher because we obviously haven't found a damn thing all day. I'd send him an owl myself, but he hates me."

"He doesn't hate you," Frank sighed.

"Thatcher hates everybody," Mad-Eye said as Lily thanked him. Nonetheless, he walked over to the fireplace and took a ceramic jar off of the mantle. Green flames erupted as soon as soon as the dust fell. Mad-Eye knelt down on the stained threadbare rug and shouted the address in a clear voice. He stuck his head into the fire and waited for a few minutes. He was looking at chair legs and bottom shelves. "Thatcher, you old prick!"

"What the hell do you want?" This was his usual greeting; the ones in the background burst out laughing. Emotion had little to do with it because he was neither angry nor glad to see Mad-Eye's head staring into his study. The man did not demand a long explanation. Mrs. Longbottom had joined them, dressed in her nightgown, and was telling her son off for such lax communication. A few minutes later, Thatcher climbed out off the fireplace and brushed ash off his robes. One look at the researcher sitting at the table took him this wasn't such a good idea, and he would have backed off if Mrs. Longbottom's voice had no cracked like a whip.

"Excuse me? My son just invited you into his home. From what I've heard, the two of you possess amazing talents in your field, so now you're just going to back out?"

"I have a kid at home with chicken pox at home, lady," said Thatcher evenly. He looked at Alice, who made the symbol of the cross with her fingers, warding him off. "No worries. I got it when I was, like, I don't know, five. Five or six. I knocked him out with meds and sleeping potions. He's good."

"Geoffrey Thatcher Neilson!" Alice glared at him as Frank opened the icebox and handed him a beer. They clinked bottles. She changed her attitude and second later and gestured to a wooden chair, but she didn't drop the subject. "You left that little boy all alone?"

"No, Meghan's mum is there," Thatch said, shrugging his shoulders and plopping down in his seat.

"Muggles get themselves bit by chickens?" asked Mrs. Longbottom incredulously.

"No, no," Thatch said. Alice stifled her giggles behind her hand. He waved his hand, searching for the words to an easy answer. "It's a virus. But most kids get it when their little because they are always around each other sharing everything. They get these itchy bumps everywhere, but they have to get a pretty good bout so they can become immune to it in one go, see?"

"Poor baby," Alice said sympathetically. Thatcher rapped his knuckles on the tabletop, asking for another ice cold bottle.

"Yeah, he's been asking for Miss Alice and Miss Lily for the past couple of days now, so Dad's on the shit list, thank you very much," said Thatch, accepting a bowl and another bottle from Frank. He threw a paper bag on the table. "Cashews, grapes and strawberry jam with preservatives. Keep the drinks coming, Dragon Lady. Got any rum?"

"Thank you," said Alice, tipping the nuts into the jam jar. She ignored Mrs. Longbottom's suggestion of spreading the concoction on bread, choosing a spoon instead. "Fresh out of rum, though, I'm afraid. What would I do without you?"

"Starve," Thatcher said. He emptied the bag and showed her the peanut butter. He turned through the dog-eared pages of a new book. "It's a new invention. Well, not really, but you've obviously been living under a rock because you chose the hard way. Who are you reading? iBridge to Nowhere/i by Neville St. Clare? Is it any good?"

"Yes, it's about Freud getting locked up in the mental asylum because he's contracted syphilis, and the only thing he can read is the Fleiss Papers. It was on the Banned Books List."

"Will you look at that? Alice stumbled upon some good historical fiction. I'm borrowing that one," Thatcher said. Glass shattered. He held up a finger, asking her to hold that thought, and walked into the sitting room. Mad-Eye shifted his vision and laughed to himself as watched the man eradicate Lily without waking her husband. James's head hit the cushion, but he only closed his mouth and slept on. He offered her an arm and led her through the swinging door. Lily mumbled something, not meeting his eyes, and accepted a handkerchief, dabbing it on her front. He helped her, ignoring her apologies. "You forgot I had a wife and my sister stays like this; she pops out kid after kid."

"God," Lily said.

"Yeah, well, what can I say? We're Catholic." Thatcher helped her into his chair. He stood. "Are you always this stubborn, or are you going to break down and speak to me, Red?"

"I ... I don't know what you're talking about," Lily said, looking at the wall. She sat up a little straighter and pretended to be interested in Alice's work till she dropped the facade. Thatcher followed her gaze, for he wanted to grab for attention. When he realised what it was, he snatched it off of the table. "Hey! Do you always treat your workers like that?"

"Drop it," Frank said in a calm voice. When the man growled at him, he switched tactics and waited through Thatcher's intrapersonal debate. "I'll tell Dumbledore, Thatch. You want him involved in this?"

Thatch threw the book back on the table and stalked off into the sitting room, swearing fluently.

"Thanks for your help, Thatch," said Alice sadly. She smiled at Lily, who seemed shocked that the man swung his mood with a drop of a hat. The front door slammed shut. "He does that. It's ... it's Thatcher. I take nothing personally."

"Yeah, cause you're his bitch," said Frank. Mad-Eye could have interrupted him and corrected that assessment, but he wrapped it up nicely. Mrs. Longbottom pursed her lips. Frank guessed her next request, and he wasn't putting himself in harm's way just to fetch the beast. "You're his favourite."

"Fine." Alice turned back to her work. Every few minutes, as though she expected the man to come strolling right back in as if nothing happened, she glanced at the door. She had been on the receiving end of a handful of these swings; Alice understood the man better than anyone else, and forgiveness, slow as molasses, was right round the corner. Without a translator or personal insight, she took cautious steps, muttering to herself all the while. Thatcher spilled his brains onto paper, which meant he switched tongues. At half past eleven, she finally marked her spot.

"Going to bed?" Mad-Eye asked. Frank had quit an hour ago, frustrated with written testimonials, and Lily had drifted off with her husband. "How long have you been at this?"

"I don't know. Fifteen hours off and on?" Alice stifled a yawn and stretched her legs. She paced round the kitchen, reading through her scribbled notes. "It's like he deliberately wants to make it difficult."

"Thatcher?" asked Mad-Eye sarcastically. "No, really? His deepest secrets are encrypted mysteries locked in a massive journal?"

Alice jumped, nearly dropping her teacup, and gasped, "What did you just say?"

"Look, if Dumbledore wanted answers badly enough, he'd be able to do it," said Mad-Eye, overriding her.

"No, shut up, sorry," she said, snapping her fingers, refilling her cup and grabbing a snack before sitting down with a recharged vigour. "I didn't mean that last part, so, please, forget it. It's not a journal, Mad-Eye, it's a personal record because he tracked all of their secrets, their talents, and he fed all of it to You-Know-Who."

She had been working on the project for far too long. Alice might think she had stumbled onto something quite significant, something clicked in her head, yet none of it pieced together. A dedicated researcher, the world faded in front of a mountain of parchment and textbooks, making her ideal for field work, but she was pulling at nothing here. Mad-Eye didn't have the heart to tell her. Not because he didn't want to hurt her feelings, but he had heard stories of weeping waterfall pregnant women who simply couldn't stop. Thatcher was a book salesman, not a journalist. Without the necessary psychological training, even if he was an exceptional Legilimens, few people had mastered this skill of gaining the upmost confidentiality and sitting at You-Know-Who's right side, truly valued.

Mad-Eye had yet to understand why Thatcher got along with Alice so well. He settled for the ordinary, patient women with kind faces. Of course, these women had more than their look, which was easily apparent with just a few minutes of conversation, small talk, the stuff Thatcher hated and usually tried to breeze through, but he enjoyed passing hours with Alice discussing a bunch of nothing. When had he stopped joking that she looked like a confused little girl and actually started listening to her? It was hilarious watching them at headquarters and Mad-Eye if Frank ever picked up on it. He probably did, seeing as he shook him head a lot and giggled at private humour. Alice managed to calm him down, and that was a strange thing in itself. Personally, Mad-Eye thought she was too patient and ought to give the old prick the boot.

"You need a break," Mad-Eye said, taking the book and standing it up. Alice cocked her head to the side like a dog. "What?"

"It's not a number," Alice said slowly, doubting her own words. She heard the disbelief in Mad-Eye's sigh and this only pushed her further. "It's not thirteen. No, Mad-Eye, I'm not pulling at strings, come on, it's a letter: 'B'."

"For what?" he asked incredulously, nevertheless rubbing his gnarled finger against the old leather. "Now, I know I just said Thatcher's strange, but this is not him."

Alice scribbled things down, running through nonsense phrases. "What's his middle name?"

"Geoffrey Thatcher," said Mad-Eye. "Don't pull out that damn Latinate dictionary because you want to fill in the blank here. It'll take hours, and you'll get nowhere."

"Any lovers?"

"Geoffrey Nielson?" he laughed at the idea. "Why would he cheat on his wife? I mean, have you seen that woman? Why would he look for anything else?"

"Dunno."

She had just gotten out of the chair when Mad-Eye called her back. "Wait. What is he asking telling you lot?"

"Thatcher says a lot of things," Alice said, hoping to drop the conversation with a vague answer. "Watch your step and take a breath. Step back. Keep your eyes peeled for sight. A French phrase saves the day. It all boils down, every ounce, to blackmail betrayal."

"Translate it."

Alice thumbed through memories and pieced it together. She had mastered an accent, Thatcher's mark, struggling through her pronunciation. "_Chantage trahison_."

"He fell for her," Mad-Eye mused, speaking to himself. He knew the truth, of course, for Thatcher had admitted it as an offhand remark. He had not even realised what he had said, desperate for a connection and under the influence of drink. They all hated her, yet Bellatrix was human, and if her husband no longer held her interest, for they only married for the acknowledgement of a pure-blood contract, a signature, she could be allured by a travelling tongue and a learned bookworm. "Bellatrix."

"What?"

"It's a record," he said, nodding. He tossed the book in the air. "That's why he didn't want Dumbledore to see it. Do you want to know what it says?"

"Yeah!" Alice caught it and read through the chicken scratch introduction. It proved to be some interesting dirt because she couldn't put it down. "Have you ever imagined Thatcher as a priest? Why isn't You-Know-You panicking over this?"

"He doesn't want the others to know," Mad-Eye guessed. It would prove that much of a problem, for You-Know-Who could just kill anyone off for good measure. He kept things quiet without any effort. "Thatcher wouldn't have to sit through al these confessionals. It wasn't like an optional j interview, dear. No, Thatch did things with style. He broke into their minds."


	4. Chapter 4:  Trial of Truth

No confession prepared Thatcher. He dealt with any guilt, holding it inside and locking it away, yet the suffering read clearly on his face. A smile never touched his eyes anymore. The man might have welcomed a Dementor at one point because he felt drained going through the motions. Each death hit him anew, almost as if each one granulated a scabbed wound ripped off and pouring blood. Of course, loosing people in the Order affected him differently; he had to know the person well. The department decided against it, offering generous leave and compensation, but he stayed hard at it, determined to close another case.

Dumbledore demanded nothing of him, nor did he walk away. The Potters died, murdered, and Joshua eventually learned and accepted that Lily just wasn't coming back. The Longbottom case hit him hard, almost to the point where he wouldn't get up because the past lured him with its tempting, captivating pleasant memories. It was a foggy morning, nothing out of the ordinary happened. Mrs. Longbottom alerted Thatcher first, saying that something just didn't feel right. They had been gone for days at a time before. Usually, this annoyed the nosy neighbours, seeing as they couldn't fill in the blanks.

This was no mission, and those two never stepped out of the box and went on a secret romantic rendezvous or anything, so that was a cause for question in itself. Tired of listening to the old lady harp on, they decided on a search. Mad usually jumped on an opportunity because the Death Eaters needed to be kept in line. In the back of his mind, he knew Alice and Frank took care of themselves. Nobody got in their way when they landed on a lead because they worked so well together. Mad-Eye and Thatcher often made snide comments that the two fools were doomed to be together for eternity. One would eventually kill the other; it was only a matter of time. So far, they managed nine years together locked in matrimony. A kid had come out of that. That was the first time, at least from what he remembered, that grouchy old lady ever smiled without a bruising commentary or throwing suggestions at her son.

Mad-Eye insisted on not being an active figure in their lives outside of work. With the downfall of You-Know-Who, the Order disbanded and the survivors went their separate ways. Mad-Eye wasn't completely sold on that idea, and after private conversations with Dumbledore, he didn't know. Things calmed down at the Ministry, although Barty Crouch still wielded an iron fist. He said much less these days, perhaps biting his tongue. The man liked his power. They hoped he chose not to spin off into a revival, for this sapped all of his credibility.

After reading over a case, he tossed the thing onto a pile, for it got him nowhere, and random words, like articles, stuck in his brain. This job seemed like they travelled down an endless dark road with the promise of a dead end. Without their powerful leader, they fell down one after another, a ripple effect, and, and under the influence of Crouch, the Ministry said they took no prisoners; each of them suffered through exhausting interrogations. Mad-Eye sat among wizards dressed in maroon robes, the Wizengamot, yet he merely acted as a listener among the audience. Courtroom Ten always felt like a locked icebox and sucked any happiness, any hope, out of the atmosphere. This had nothing to do with reaping a reward. He took it upon himself to witness this for the victims, especially for the victims; they needed a voice.

"All present?" Crouch's voice cracked like a whip.

Mad-Eye sealed his roll of parchment. The buzzing crowd of spectators standing below shook his focus. Only a handful of faces registered to him. The young Junior Minister, Cornelius Fudge, for one, whose nose was already splattered with ink, had snuck up behind the court and hid in the corner. Others were clearly here for the story. A little blonde thing, Rita Skeeter, held a camera aloft, ready for any memorable shot, and she seemed quite keen on her job. If Mad-Eye had a say in these proceedings, and he did not, except for the families and close friends of the victims, these would be private. The court needed no drama, for this was a difficult, mounting task.

"No prisoners indeed," grunted Mad-Eye as he shifted his position for a better look. Just last week, when he first observed a session, things seemed lax. A door slammed shut and footsteps thundered up the old creaking stairs. Mad-Eye pulled out his wand as something rustled past. Dumbledore reacted and grabbed his wrist. Annoyed, Mad-Eye looked up and saw Thatcher brush his white locks out of his face. "You idiot."

"You're pulling that off as a term of endearment," Thatcher said breathlessly, relaxing after a moment and taking the empty seat next to Dumbledore, deaf to the other wizards' whispered conversations. "Professor?"

"Six-thirty means six-thirty," Mad-Eye continued, checking the time. "Not seven twenty-seven or whenever the hell you feel like it."

"Right." Thatcher tied his white hair back and laced his trainers. He knew this behaviour was unacceptable and he would stay after for the time buried underneath parchment. He nodded to Amelia Bones, who, surprisingly, simply shook her head. She had reserved a seat for him on Dumbledore's request. "Don't suppose I could say I lost my son."

"No. Where was he?" asked Dumbledore as Crouch read off a list, an attendance record, introducing the court.

"In the broom cupboard," said Thatcher, shaking his robes sleeve. "Figure that one out."

The room fell silent. Their attention turned to the heavy doors as Crouch stood up on the platform. The cases were chosen by random selection, so the announcement often surprised them as nothing but recorded evidence entered through those doors. Dementors stood at the doors, and Aurors dragged the accused in. Bellatrix walked in led by a young black Auror with a bald palate. Her long tangled locks framed her pale face. She revealed no fear, not even when she took a seat and the snakelike rattled, linking through her arms, locking her in place.

"You, Bellatrix Black Lestrange," Crouch reeled off without preamble, "have been charged with the assault and murder of Meghan Reagan Nielson, twenty-eight, of Surrey."

The buzz rose immediately. Mad-Eye turned his head so fast he thought he got whiplash. It was pubic knowledge, another whispered in the Wizarding community, but it had been mere speculation. Heads jerked towards Thatcher; he stared at his hands. "When did that get released?" 

"Last Wednesday," said Thatcher softly not looking up. "I told Albus to do whatever he wanted. He submitted the charges over to committee."

"You may step out," said Dumbledore, raising his hand as Crouch turned, handing it over to the board. His voice rang through the hall. "Madam Lestrange."

Mad-Eye sat and held his tongue. Dumbledore hardly made that move, taking up a case before others stepped in. He clarified points and countered testimony, feeding the words back to the accused. He spoke in a calm tone and waited till she turned towards him. She threw him a dark look, though she acted a little hesitant without her master there to protect her. Mad-Eye didn't know how long Dumbledore had known Meghan. The man knew her mother, Jacqueline Marquis, who worked in chemistry, an alchemist at university. He assumed he knew the woman her whole life, for it was clear by his tone that he treaded carefully, choosing his words and distancing himself.

"Why?"

Bellatrix remained silent as stone.

"I would have argued you never had a hand in it, personally, seeing the passion you craft in your targets. You plan out everything. She was nobody." Dumbledore surveyed her over his spectacles, waiting. "What? She was an Auror's wife? The woman worked at a bookstore, so she's not exactly threatening, is she? Why bother?"

Bellatrix said nothing until Thatcher looked up at her. "She had nothing."

The audience thought she merely agreed with Dumbledore. In truth, she had admitted nothing of significance, yet her words carried weight. Dumbledore drummed his long fingers on the bench and considered her words. She didn't budge when he fired off a few more questions, the room thought that he had given up and was ready to pass her onto the next man. They thought Dumbledore was about to let her go, but he held off.

"Did she ask you for help?"

"What?"

"You heard me." Dumbledore cleared his throat. 'You tracked her."

Bellatrix let out a shrill of laughter. "You're losing your touch, Dumbledore."

"No, no, dear, although I'm rather surprised you're not jumping to a confession to honour your Dark Lord. No, you followed her to Flourish and Blotts. Perhaps you resorted to the Cruciatus Curse, the weapon of choice, but you panicked when Meghan went into labour. I saw the scene. There was a lot of blood, and it bothered you that she never gave up, so you strengthened the curse, and you lost interest after a couple of hours. You fled and let her bleed to death."

"She had nothing," Bellatrix repeated without a shred of remorse. "She knew nothing. The filthy Mudblood wasn't worth a damn."

"No more questions," said Dumbledore, taking a seat and passing her along.

As spectators, Thatcher and Mad-Eye said nothing for most of the morning. Thatcher looked drained. Dumbledore invited him to these sessions, but Mad-Eye couldn't see why this was a smart move, especially considering that he had to face this woman again. Neither of them would ever be able to erase that night at the bookstore from memory. It had resurfaced two years later as if someone had slapped them in the face. Mad-Eye had not expected this to happen: he walked through all of these cases a second time. After a short recess, most of them returned for the afternoon round. Mad-Eye realised that Dumbledore followed through testimonies while flipping through the pages of a book; this undivided attention irked him a little until he recognised what it was. The professor compared two confessions side by side, judging the truth behind their words.

"Thatcher stood up as soon as the Longbottoms case was announced. "No. I'm done." 

"Thatch," Mad-Eye growled.

"Leave," said Dumbledore, overriding him. He squeezed Thatcher's shaking hand as the doors opened. "We'll discuss this tonight. Go home to Joshua. Thank you for your time."

"Yeah." Thatcher apologised as he pushed through the crowd and made it out the back.

"Should I go after him?" Mad-Eye asked. Thatcher had been shaking for a while.

"No, he'll be fine. I don't he's eaten anything, but he does that when he's stressed. I was afraid he'd faint on the bench, and you don't need that as a story in the office."

"No. Are you staying all night?"

"Not tonight, no. I have been holding off the governor's board for two nights, and they want answers, so I'll work on that."

"You've lost your mind," said Mad-Eye in a false voice littered with awe. They listened through the testimony in bits. "Running that school and sitting through all of this."

Dumbledore chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. "Enjoying the living arrangement?"

"With Thatch? It works, I guess, as he stays the hell out of my way, but that kid? He never shuts up. I told him to go in the broom cupboard last night because he suggested hide and seek. I guess he went back this morning because I never sought."

"Alastor."

Dumbledore got up at the end of the session and walked with him out of the corridor. Another section started at the top of the hour, seven o'clock. As the Chief Warlock, they expected him to be present at most trials, but that just wasn't possible during the school year because he had to act as headmaster; his main priority was Hogwarts, and he made no secret of it. They headed towards the Atrium. Out of habit, the professor tossed a few coins in the Fountain of Magical Brethren. The stepped into out of the fireplaces and landed into the headmaster's office. Mad-Eye brushed ash off of his robes and looked round at the portraits.

"Peace and quiet, Albus," said Mad-Eye, stretching his legs and pacing round the office. The kid and his father had not yet managed to destroy his place. "He's a smart kid. Jimmied my damn lock once, though, so I have to step up my game here."

"He is," Dumbledore agreed.

"So," he said slowly. "What about Crouch?"

The pain was etched on the man's face. He looked as though he had almost been knocked down with the shock. After all of these months, the truth leaked out and he had no idea. The idealist leader fell in the eyes of the crowd; the mood had shifted instantly, and there was nothing anyone could do to save him. Listening to that final gripping plea, Mad-Eye wasn't sure what he would have done, and it made him even more grateful that he had no children. Crouch had thrown down the parchment he had been reading through all day and took the offensive. Mad-Eye remembered questioning the young man when they first grabbed him. The boy was a radical, but he had no idea of what he jumped into. Thatcher entries on him ought to be littered with interesting stuff because the boy seemed like he cascaded like a waterfall.

"Ask Thatch."

Mad-Eye loved it when they were on the same page. Dumbledore tossed a rucksack on his polished desk. "How'd you get that in the courtroom?"

"I'm Chief," he said simply, cleaning his spectacles. There was a knock on his door. "Enter."

A house-elf dressed on a toga walked in and bowed low to them. She entered with three dishes on one arm, like a practiced waitress, and duplicated the meal before either one of them requested it. "Professor Dumbledore, sir."

"Thank you, Nadia."

"Professor McGonagall wants to know if you wants to invite one Mr. Nielson to dinner Saturday evening. She says he writes her earlier today." 

"She knows Thatch?" asked Mad-Eye as he lifted the lid off of his plate. Dumbledore nodded. He took off a chunk of roast beef and sniffed it before biting it off the fork. "Interesting. Small world, eh?"

"Thank you, Nadia," said Dumbledore, closing the door behind her. "She doesn't know him like you do. He gives her subscriptions and book recommendations."

"Library Boy needs a new hobby," said Mad-Eye as Dumbledore sat down. "Pick pocketing."

"He has a knack for that," said Dumbledore, considering it. He opened the third volume and flipped through its pages. "When he asks you ..."

"I don't know shit," said Mad-Eye.

center ***** /center

Thatcher got back on his feet. Although there were whispers that he would remarry, for his was not a bad looking man, but those who knew him well knew that this would never happen. Thatcher had his handful of women, and he filled their heads with empty promises. They usually crept out of the flat in the early morning hours before Joshua got out of bed. It just made for awkward situations, and he openly admitted that he saw no point learning their names. So when a towel draped figure met him at the front door, Mad-Eye showed no surprise. After thirteen years, they matched the same profile: dark tresses, grey eyes and petite figures.

"Sorry," she mumbled, closing the door behind him and dashing into the small bathroom.

"Who's that?"

Mad-Eye set a carrier bag on the counter and looked up at Joshua. He didn't really want to know, seeing as he would forget the name anyway, but he decided to let Joshua humour him. The lad had grown into a stocky young man with curly blonde hair and blue eyes. He wore a plain black t-shirt over a light white turtleneck over pair of jeans. This kid had to one of the cleanest bachelors round because he cleaned up as he worked in the kitchen. Eggs and bacon sizzled in a frying pan. He dumped the contents onto the granite countertop and started chopping an onion with a sharp blade. He created strange leftover meals like his father, but this made him quite the cook because he couldn't let his father starve. Joshua had considered getting his own place, and it took him a minute to realise he pretty much already had that freedom.

"Elizabeth, the third, I think," said Joshua as he hunted round for a scapula. He opted for a whisk and started beating the ingredients. "Are you hungry?"

"No."

"I can cook, really. It's not like I'm Mr. Throws Shit Together."

"I know." Mad-Eye opened the door for the woman and shook his head when she walked out without saying good-bye. He scanned the room unconsciously and sighed when he noticed a shock of pink hair. "I am tired of seeing you, girl, quit following me."

Tonks waved at him and offered him a barstool at the counter. "How do you know you're not following me?"

He shrugged and joined her, pushing the bridal magazines aside. "What's this?"

Tonks pulled a face and flipped through a random edition. When neither of them said anything, Mad-Eye decided it would come round later. Joss wasn't one for dramatics, although Tonks leaned on them when she was having of those days. These two had known each other for years; Thatch said they met on the playground when Joss was six, making her round eight, and they had pretty much inseparable ever since.

"Can I tell him?" Tonks flipped the page and showed him a yellow gown. "Cute?"

"No."

"Yeah, whatever," said Tonks, accepting a hot plate and turning to Mad-Eye. "You won't tell anyone. Joss and Natasha are engaged. He asked her a pub last night during a football game."

"The redhead you've known forever?" asked Mad-Eye. Joss nodded, glaring at Nymphadora, who was not fussed at all. "I like her. Did you tell Thatch?"

He knew the answer to that one.

"Steal the rings," he said.

"Mad-Eye," said Tonks. Joshua burst out laughing and choked on his eggs.

"You think I'm pulling your leg?' He raised his wand and a jewellery box soared onto the table. He took out two black boxes and pushed them towards Joshua. "No, they're your mother's rings, so they go to you. They were supposed to go to Rachelle, but that's not going to happen."

"I can't." Nevertheless, Joshua opened the second box, took out a silver sapphire band and turned it towards the light. "I remember this."

"Yeah," said Mad-Eye. He might be stepping out of line here, but it wasn't like the boy was a kid anymore. This fuelled him with a sudden inspiration. He found the old grey satchel hanging in the back of the armoire after some rummaging. Tonks took it from him and fished round for Meghan's keepsakes. "Did he tell you this was at the scene?"

"Yeah. He slapped me when I started looking through it, but I took the prayer book."

"Look at this," said Tonks, flipping through the pages of a tiny daily calendar. It catalogued her last five years. She laughed at the red circles and read an entry, "Born eleventh September, at two thirty-three, four pounds, two ounces, Joshua Alexis."

"That's Dad's writing," said Joshua, squinting at the tiny scrawled hand. "See how it's different? The month before that says, 'Mathieu's and Mum's Wedding: Switzerland.'"

"She probably missed it, but I think Dumbledore went." Mad-Eye shrugged when they looked surprised. He dug round for Meghan's wallet and showed them photographs. "See? That's him with Jacqueline, and that's Mathieu and her. He looks young."

"You know Papa?" asked Joshua.

"In passing." Mad-Eye shrugged. "He invited me his French countryside house once. Course, I found out later, he suspected your father had turned, for some reason, Merlin knows why, that we were a couple. If either of you mention this outside this kitchen..."

"Yeah?"

"There's a lot you don't know about your father, Joshua," said Mad-Eye.

"It gets better," said Tonks twirled her fork and waved at Thatcher, asking him to join them. He stood at the top of the stairs.

"Stop," he growled.

"Oh, one of those stories," said Tonks, laughing lightly. "He' brother; I'm his mother; I'm his sister ..."

Thatcher cleared his throat loudly. "Your uncle?"


End file.
